Young Love
by kolben24
Summary: Mrs. Holmes observes the blossoming, ridiculously adorable romance between John Watson and her younger son, Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock's room, left to his own devices, looked like a battlefield strewn with wounded action figures. He practically devoured them by the crate load. Once he found out how all of them worked and once he was able to guess all of their motives or he'd finished using them in a brilliant demonstration of whatever crime he'd solved that play date, he laid them carelessly out of his way in random bits of the house. When he was over, John would march after him and pick them up, right their heads, and place them back on a nearby shelf or possibly in the toy box that sat underneath Sherlock's bunk bed. Many times, quite a bit of doctoring was necessary in order for the toy to be put away in one piece. Sherlock's mother once caught part of a conversation between Sherlock after he'd become exasperated with John about this habit.

On this particular day, Sherlock couldn't understand why John would waste time on a stupid piece of plastic modeled after some blasted cartoon about a ginger and his anthropomorphic dog.

"Because," John had replied, "your mum loves you enough to find 'em and buy 'em for you. Even if you don't like them you shouldn't throw them about. I'd never throw anything around if someone gave something like that to me."

"Then you have it."

"I can't-"

"I want you to have it."

"But I don't have anything to give you!"

What followed was a hilariously one-sided shouting match. John never raised his voice the whole time. She supposed it had to do with the way his mother always looked like she'd had a late one. It was never Mrs. Holmes' place to judge, but she always made sure that the boys played over here. Sherlock could be a handful, but John and Sherlock wrestling and Sherlock shouting the whole time was liable to drive anyone to madness.

She imagined she could see the familiar stubborn look on Sherlock's face. Bullheaded with his affections, just like his father. If it were anyone but John, she might have been worried about Sherlock taking advantage. John, however, was a definite rival when it came to Sherlock's obstinacy. If he agreed to something, it was because he damn well wanted to. It was like watching rams lock horns. Except the rams sometimes wore footie pajamas and were often found cuddled in the same bunk the morning after their frequent sleepovers.

The next day after school, Sherlock rushed out of the car, past her to the front door and immediately took the stairs three at a time to his room. With her ear against the door, she could only make out muffled sniffles and the expected, "Come in, mum. I know you're listening."

She let herself in and shut the door behind her.

"The house slippers you changed in to are too distinctive, Mum. I've told you before."

"I'm waiting to lull you into a false sense of security. Then one day I'll run upstairs in assassin's slippers and scare the living daylights out of you. Tell me what's wrong, love."

"John gave me back Tin Tin."

Ah. Lovers' quarrel.

"I'm sure he has a good reason."

"No, I know it's not John's fault. His wretched mother with her two day-old mouthwash-covered whiskey breath (where had he gotten the frame of reference for that deduction, anyway?) and her fake diamond earrings-which she doesn't know about, by the way, she's the one who told him he couldn't keep it. Talked about rich arses and their 'bloody charity' as if there's no reason for me to love John except for the fact that he's poor."

They both let that statement hang in the air.

"I'm sure she was just acting in accordance with her conditioning, darling. Some people are so hung up on the idea of other people judging them that they want to do it first so they think they have the upper hand. We've talked about this kind of thing before. You know you can't hate her. After all, she did make John. Cut her a little slack."

After kissing his cheek and snuggling the bejeesus out of him (Ow! OW! Mum! You'll bloody _cuddle_ me to death before I have a chance to reach _puberty_! You're_ pinching an artery_!), she went downstairs to the study. Phone calls needed to be made. She could definitely forgive a lack of self-confidence and occasional paranoia, but no one had the right to belittle her son for financial situations that were beyond his control.

Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Sherlock came rushing home to say that John was currently working on coaxing his mum into letting him come over. Sherlock concluded that this meant he had about a week knowing John's confrontation skills, factoring in that it involved his mother, and how quickly the average human tends to take in order to swallow their pride. Muttering something else about preparations, he scurried off towards his room.

The next morning at breakfast, Sherlock calmly inquired about the key to the attic. After, dear goodness, _thanking _her, he scampered off. An hour later, she heard a series of thuds. After hearing Sherlock's shouted abuse at whatever had dropped, her heart rate settled knowing the sounds weren't of her son falling to his death, and she went to figure out what the culprit was. She found Sherlock dragging an antique hope chest down the hallway toward his room. It wasn't on fire, so she decided to leave well enough alone.

On Sunday morning, Sherlock asked if he could accompany her on her errand run. Like usual, he'd disappear and magically show up thanks to his impeccable sense of time right when she was ready to check out. On the third stop, after bringing her findings to the register, he'd approached her and quietly placed a single toy on the conveyor belt. There was no logical, overly detailed explanation of why he needed it. There was no accompanying lighter fluid or matches. Just the single box. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he was shy about it. She deliberately didn't point out that she knew he already owned this particular action figure. If she'd noticed, he most definitely had. Hoping whatever his plan was didn't involve any kind of damage reparation after its conclusion, she didn't say anything and paid for their haul.

She prided herself on trusting her boys and knowing that their experiments were mostly harmless, but the absolute stillness from Sherlock's room over the next several hours unnerved her. The only time he was quiet was when he was in the library, just like his father. There seemed to be a beautiful "no talking" rule that was punishable by exile in that corner of the house. His room, on the other hand, usually emitted a series of curses or exclamations of victory or a combination thereof. Knowing that she wouldn't be able to get any information out of him unless he wanted her to know, she gave herself three hours before she picked the handle's tiny lock and did her own investigating. Luckily, though, Sherlock emerged midway through hour two to ask if he and John could play after school on Thursday.

The call was made, and after a strained inquiry about the Watson family's general health, the play date was set.

Monday afternoon had Sherlock moping about the place like a crotchety old man. He would randomly snap at inanimate objects around the house. Like the rug. She'd had to talk to him about death threats after that little fiasco. About how you can't threaten to unravel a carpet's family to death. But later, she'd caught him putting the corner he'd tripped over back into place and she thought she was going mental when she'd heard his faint apology. To a rug. He was getting more like his father everyday. She'd miss him, but between Sherlock and Mycroft, there was hardly any time. Sometimes it was like he wasn't even gone.

By Tuesday, she began to wonder if Sherlock had managed to isolate caffeine molecules from soda and inject them directly into his bloodstream. He was so fidgety it scared her.

Wednesday afternoon she was positive that he'd ingested some kind of drug he'd accidentally made from random substances littered about his room. His pupils responded appropriately, however, to light stimuli, so she simply let him tweak about the house, hoping he didn't break anything that would be difficult to replace. Later, she definitely overheard him yelling at the cat for being "so damned nosy" and to "stay out of private matters".

Thursday morning, he was waiting at the breakfast table, fully dressed in some of his nicest clothes. The coffee cup he clutched in his hand (she'd have to hide the espresso machine better) was methodically raised to his lips and lowered to the table in such a robotic way that she silently mused about checking to see if he'd successfully created an android version of himself.

At just the action of grabbing her keys, he jumped up and produced his bookbag from under the table. As he bolted past her to the garage, she resolved to at least ask him what had him so worked up. It couldn't just be the separation from John, she told herself. They saw each other at school every day. Granted, they were only allowed to speak to each other during breaks since the teachers apparently had a hell of a time getting them to focus when they were in the same room, but usually it was enough to sate their quota of quality time.

The car ride to school proved fruitless, since every time she spoke, Sherlock responded only with a distracted grunt. After getting him to grumble assent to moving to Guantanamo Bay so she could marry the Licorice King, she realized that conversation was hopeless. Still, she practically smothered him with a goodbye "peck" before he could escape the car, and she watched him walk off to the drop off area. Except he completely bypassed the spot where he usually waited for John and headed directly inside. Strange. Something was definitely up. As she watched his retreating back, she saw his hands run through his hair in a way that was achingly familiar. His father used to do that whenever he was nervous. In fact, the first time she'd seen him nervous and unsure of himself was on the night he proposed. She'd thought he was going to dump her. In public. Ugh, that was easily one of the worst and best nights of her life. They'd had a long talk about how they were going to need to communicate so as to avoid emotional breakdowns in the future.

Wait.

The seclusion. The irritability.His best clothes. Oh god, her son was going to propose to John Watson. Not literally, of course. But he had declared that he would keep John forever, six minutes after they'd met in their first year. Something big was being planned, and she didn't know how she was going to clean up the fall out. If _she_ could barely handle the profession of love from a Holmes, how the hell was a ten year old supposed to cope with it? John was strong and used to Sherlock's moods, but she felt doubt for the first time about his ability to handle her son.

Fielding calls at work that day was interspersed with horrific visions of her son becoming a hermit after John's possible rejection. She knew John would never intentionally hurt Sherlock, but sometimes Sherlock tended towards oversensitivity. If John showed any reluctance or hesitation at all, Sherlock would crumble. Alcoholic by the age of fourteen. Runaway after his first bout of treatment. Forced into a life of petty crime and picked up by some johns because they liked his distinctive features.

Whoa, deep breath.

She knew that Sherlock was far too cunning and manipulative to not see when it was being done to him. If anything, he'd become the world's youngest crime lord within six months. Strangely enough, this made her feel better.

She decided to take the rest of the day off. If she wasn't able to keep from fretting about this, she might as well do it where she wouldn't accidentally scream advice for her mafia don son into the ear of a client. So instead she spent the rest of the day at home, making every dish she could remember John mentioning having liked. If she could help butter him up, she was damn well going to do it. But she didn't want to stuff his gills and make him sick. What if he passed out and Sherlock never got the chance to tell him what he needed to tell him? What if he choked on a biscuit and died? This whole thing was so difficult. It had been so much easier with Mycroft. When she'd sat down with charts and graphs and diagrams to have "the talk" with him, he'd calmly leaned across the table and laid his hand on hers. He then explained that he'd read every medical text in the house, as well as studied other resources, and that he simply hadn't the inclination to be bothered with something as mundane and tedious as sexual activity. He was, however, completely open to the idea of letting her go through her routine anyway, so as to make her feel more secure in her role as educator and mother, and also to practice for when Sherlock finally needed it. Instead, they'd launched into a discussion about asexuality and aromanticism. He'd actually had several questions that she'd been thankfully able to answer. She didn't think that the talk had done much for him, until he'd called her up one night a few months after he'd moved away for his first internship for the Service to drunkenly thank her. He'd met someone on his first day with whom he'd fallen into "mutual platonic obsession" with. Apparently, "Anthea" (they weren't allowed to know each other's real names) had been reluctant to spend time with him, because of her natural aversion to sexual relationships. After calmly relaying the information (from his mum!) about how romanticism doesn't need to lead to sex, Anthea had happily agreed to see him. Last she'd heard they had a carefully timed wedding scheduled in several years that would maximize both of their careers in the eyes of the public. Ah, young love.

So this should be easy, right? She had no idea what Sherlock was up to, but she knew it was important, and she knew it had to do with John. Anything about John was seen as important to Sherlock. That's why this was so terrifying.

At four fifteen, precisely twenty minutes before chess club would be let out, she left to go pick up the boys from the school. Like usual when she picked them up, they were waiting on top of the school's brick monument-sign at the corner of the grounds. Silently, they both hopped down and walked slowly to the car. Neither were speaking, which wasn't exactly abnormal, but she could feel the tension seep into the car when they climbed into the back seat. She wondered how they could breathe with how thick it was.

When they pulled up the drive, Sherlock was out like a shot, running up to his bedroom. John lagged behind, taking his time undoing his seatbelt, wiping his shoes off on the mat before stepping into the house. Then, with the most determination she'd seen in an eleven year old, he marched up the stairs. Removing her shoes, she tiptoed as quietly as possible after him. Outside the door, she could hear the awkward shuffle of feet as the boys silently decided who was going to break the silence. She heard Sherlock clear his throat.

"I've prepared a gift," he announced.

Silence. More nervous shuffling.

"I…er...I hope you like it," he finished. She heard something heavy being dragged across the wooden floor. When it stopped, she heard the soft creak of something being opened.

"What's this?" John asked.

"A present, John," Sherlock said, "I just told you. It's customary to thank the gift-giver."

"Why didn't you talk to me all week?" she heard John demand.

She could almost see the blush creeping up over Sherlock's neck to his ears.

John interrupted whatever reply might have come out of Sherlock's mouth, "You can't just ignore me for a week after asking me to come over and expect me to just say thank you. Tell me why you didn't talk to me."

"I'd have given it away," came his response.

"WHAT?" she took a step back from the door, "You wouldn't so much as look at me for an entire week because _you didn't want to ruin a surprise? _That you didn't even know if I wanted or not? Are you insane? I know you're not stupid, Sherlock, but even an idiot would be able to tell that that was a horrible move."

The stunned silence was deafening, and she heard a full minute of sputtering before Sherlock erupted.

"I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING, JOHN. I THOUGHT YOU WOULD LIKE IT, SO I GOT IT FOR YOU. THAT'S WHAT PEOPLE DO FOR THE ONES THEY CARE ABOUT, DON'T THEY?" he bellowed.

She barely had time to jump out of the way when the footsteps made for the doorway. In his tears, Sherlock probably didn't see her jump behind the swinging door, trying to get out of his way. She stood, frozen, in the middle of the hallway. The wrecked sound of sniffles broke her out of her daze, and she peeked her head around the doorframe.

John stood, shoulders slumped and stuttering with each silenced sob, in the middle of the room. The hope chest was open in front of him, the action figure Sherlock had timidly brought to the register was lying face up on top of the mound of toys and random knick-knacks that John had sometimes shown the most appreciation for.

So this is what Sherlock had been planning, she thought. Giving him his own toy box here. He practically _was _proposing. How sweet, but how disastrously executed. His father through and through. She walked up behind John and placed a loving hand on his shoulder.

"Sweetie, he only does it because he cares—"

"I know he cares for me," John interrupted, "I've always known. I just get so sodding angry when he refuses to just say it. I tell 'im all the time. He knows he's my absolute best friend in the world, but for some reason, he'll never say it back. Then he goes and does something as bloody stupid as this and tries to tell me to thank him!" John huffed, "Buying me gifts like he thinks he needs to! He knows that's not what I want from him. I've bloody well told him!"

"His father was the same way, dear. Trying to ply people with presents. It's how the boys show affection. You probably just need to talk it out. Without him shouting, of course," she offered after a short silence.

"He's probably sitting in the kitchen right now, waiting for me to apologize," said John.

"You don't need to apologize for anything, darling," she said, "you just need to go tell him what you want and hope he hears you this time."

Later, she walked by the living room just in time to see John move closer to Sherlock on the couch and take his hand. So they'd made up then. Hopefully peace would last through the _n _course dinner she'd made. With just the three of them, they'd probably make a dent in it.

At the table, she noticed the boys seemed quieter than normal. Well, she guessed a fight would do that. It might take them some time to get back into the swing of things. She had to reevaluate the situation later, however, when she almost re-dropped the napkin she'd swiped onto the floor. There, under the table, was Sherlock's right foot hooked behind John's left. Leave it to two growing boys to find an act of affection that kept the hands free for shoveling food into their mouths.

The drive to John's house was done in almost complete silence. She would have been worried, but the twin looks of giddiness on the boys' faces quelled that rather quickly. Pulling up into John's driveway, she looked into the rearview mirror to say goodbye to John. The glance showed Sherlock leaning in to say it first though, apparently. John's blush marched steadily over his face as Sherlock pulled away from his cheek. John undid his seatbelt and got out of the car, absently thanking Mrs. Holmes for a wonderful time. At his doorstep, he turned around one last time and the bashful wave he sent in Sherlock's direction was so cute that she had to actively keep herself from tearing up.

She reversed the car, and they started home.

"So…" she started, "you and John?"

He was so silent that for a split second, she thought he wasn't in the car anymore. She wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have snuck out when she was trying not to cry.

"I know you were listening, Mum," came Sherlock's voice from the backseat, finally. "House slippers or not, I can always tell it's you."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she replied.

"No," he started, "no, it's okay. I know that you think that I miss a lot of stuff. And I know that sometimes I do. But it's not the stuff you're worried about. I didn't get a second action man for John because I thought he needed it. I got it because I know he didn't. He likes spending time with me, and he never wants anything, but that's why I want to share my stuff with him."

She stayed silent, willing him to continue with what was probably the most open he'd been with anyone, aside from John.

"I had a whole bloody speech prepared, Mum," he said. "I was going to tell him that gifts weren't supposed to be 'exchanged', they were just supposed to be given. I was going to speak so beautifully that he wouldn't be able to help but be in love with me too."

At this point, they'd parked in the garage, but neither of them made a move to get out of the car.

"Instead, he thought I was trying to buy him off or something. I was so upset that he couldn't see I loved him that I just ran away like a bloody coward. When he came downstairs, I...I all but threw up on him."

"What did you say, sweetie? Whatever it was, clearly it got the message across," she prodded.

"I told him that I wanted to share everything with him, forever. I told him that I love him and that I hoped that we could spend as much time together as possible. I told him that he means more to me than I think anyone ever could," Sherlock finished in a whisper.

"And what did John say in return?" she asked.

Sherlock huffed in laughter. "He said, 'well it's about damn time you said it, but we should probably wait til we're loads older to get married. I don't quite fancy being the only newlyweds in class next year."

The watery smile she sent him made his face explode into panic.

"Oh no you don't," he warned, "You are not crying already. I love you, Mum, but I don't do tears."

With that, he kissed her cheek and scampered into the house. She watched him go, thinking that he might have some of his father's mannerisms, but what he'd just said had been pure Sherlock: smart, funny, and heartbreaking. The sweetest part was that all of it was wrapped tightly around the finger of one John Hamish Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

Irene's arrival in their life had caused quite an upheaval. She'd shown up halfway through the boys' seventh year, and had all but demanded a place in their lives. Now, four years later, she'd become a fixture in the Holmes' household. Sherlock would never admit it, but he adored her and adored annoying her. John took to her like any loving older brother would. He doted on her, and in return, received aid in pissing off Sherlock when he needed to be taken down a peg.

Today, it seemed that John and Irene had set Sherlock's nose onto some kind of trail. Mrs. Holmes didn't know the details, but found it hilarious when Sherlock had stomped about the house, muttering darkly to no one in particular. He'd brandished a note in her face accusingly and ordered her to sympathize with his current plight. The note read "Ask, dumbass". John knew Sherlock all too well. A sure way to make things difficult for Sherlock was to force him to have to cooperate with others. Sherlock, however, always had to exhaust himself before resorting to human interaction (unless John was involved), so he was currently bounding from room to room and checking every nook and cranny in which John might have concealed himself. Irene had taken to dogging his heels the whole way, taunting about him not understanding the clue. Upon his ignoring her, however, she'd decided to sit with Mrs. Holmes in the kitchen. Now was the chance to ask something that had been on her mind regarding the girl's situation for quite some time.

"Sherlock tells me you're up for possible legal emancipation."

"Did he, now?" Irene chewed a piece of apple slowly, measuring the climate of the pending discussion.

"You know, we have a spare bedroom, if you wouldn't mind helping me keep an eye on the two of them. Unless you have somewhere else lined up already."

She managed to keep her eyes on the chopping board in front of her, and noted that she would need more than the chef knife in her hand to slice through the silence surrounding them.

Irene had been in foster care for years, and it was only by pure chance that she'd managed to stay in one household this long. Now was the chance to give her the stability that Mrs. Holmes thought she needed and possibly, deep down, truly wanted. Weighty offers like this often took children like Irene by surprise, and she wanted to make sure that Irene felt like she was in control of the decision. She knew that Irene railed at the idea of others deciding her fate, but she'd had to conceal it at every turn for the sake of not being labeled a "troubled" child. Mrs. Holmes tried to infuse the silence with as much patience as she could muster.

That is, until Sherlock burst into the kitchen, startling them both. His heated glare settled on Irene.

"Tell me where he is."

Irene's face went carefully blank, then contorted with glee. "No."

"Where. The hell. Is he hiding," he spat through gritted teeth.

Irene snickered. "What was that? Did you finally break down and ask for help?"

"I won't ask again."

"Pity."

Irene began idly studying the apple core in her hand.

One by one, Sherlock's appendages relaxed. He reformed his face into a politely inquisitive mask. Mrs. Holmes had never felt more unnerved in her life, and that included all of her years in the Service.

"Please, Irene. Would you be so kind as to tell me where our dear John is holed up?"

"Of course, darling," came her sickeningly sweet reply. "He's standing right behind you."

Whirling around, Sherlock backed the slightly shorter boy all the way up to kitchen door that was still easing shut from his sneaky arrival.

"What was the meaning of this, John?"

"Really? You haven't figured it out already? You know, for a supposed genius, you sure can be unbelievably unobservant at times," John replied, cheeky grin in place.

"Out with it."

"I've been leaving fliers around for weeks, not to mention that I've been searching online for tuxedo rentals, and I know you snoop through my search history, so there's no excuse."

Sherlock straightened and blinked slowly.

"The winter formal."

"Took you long enough."

"You...you set up a scavenger hunt to ask me to some trivial teenage rite of passage."

"Ah. The genius makes an appearance at last."

"And you actually managed to make it not unbearably easy."

"Hey now, I got you to beg, didn't I?"

Mrs. Holmes silenced Irene's impending interruption with a glance. Nodding her head toward the other exit, both ladies took that moment as their chance to leave the boys to sort out their ridiculous courtship and proceeded to conveniently gather in the living room, next to an air vent that just so happened to carry sounds spectacularly well from the kitchen. They settled in to eavesdrop shamelessly.

"If the offer is serious," Irene whispered after a while, "I would be more than happy to help manage those two."

Meeting her gaze, Mrs. Holmes forced herself not to allow the joy to seep into her features.

"Well, thank you, Irene. Feel free to move your things into your room whenever you're ready."

She dutifully turned away to focus on the row that was getting quieter in the kitchen, taking great care not to let on that she'd noticed the glassiness in Irene's eyes.

"Damn. I think they've finally stormed upstairs to finish pretending to be short with each other," she said, hoping to give the girl a bit of privacy. Standing, she made her way back to the kitchen to resume making dinner.

A while later, after Irene had snuck off (sadly, she was quite good at disappearing), Mrs. Holmes made her way upstairs to drag the boys down to refuel before their next affectionate shouting match broke out. What she hadn't been expecting, but really she should have, was to find that John was so thoroughly distracting her son that, for the first time, Sherlock didn't hear his mother approach the door to his room.

She may have been a celibate widow for some 10 odd years, but she knew what the noises coming from under Sherlock's door implied.

She managed to stifle her laughter until she made it back downstairs. Thank goodness she'd had the talk with him after he'd come home from school several years before, frustrated that the teacher wouldn't explain what he meant by the term "protection" or why he couldn't say the word "penis" without his voice cracking.

The talk had been more of a solidifying of theory and theoretical exploration of comfort zones than an actual informational lecture about the logistics of sex.

The noises upstairs grew louder, as did her giggles. She didn't know if it was appropriate to be proud of her boys in a situation like this. Was that normal? More importantly, did it matter?

It was at milestones like these that she missed her husband most. He wouldn't have hesitated to invite Irene into their home, and he wouldn't have spoken for a week if he'd been the one to happen upon John and Sherlock. He would have left clues though, that demonstrated his love and support. He'd have snuck a key into Irene's purse the next time she was over. He'd probably have left browsers open to explicit sites or hidden how-to pamphlets about safe sex in the bottom of laundry baskets for their son. Sherlock would have understood, too. He was so much like his father that it physically pained her at times. A week after an argument they'd had a while back, Sherlock had come down to dinner and not said a word through the entire meal. His fingers, however, had tapped out I AM AN ASS in Morse code on the dining table the whole time.

John and Irene had been over that night, filling the perceived silence with seemingly idle chatter, and she'd seen their confused looks turn to barely concealed laughter at Sherlock when the tapping had first begun. By the time the meal was over, John was happy to do nothing but sit and enjoy the soft tap-tap-tap, smiling like a loon each time the phrase was completed. Irene had to excuse herself to go laugh openly outside. By the time the meal was over, Sherlock had a grin to rival John's, and Irene had managed to keep her giggles under control.

Laughing softly to herself at the memory, Mrs. Holmes sent up a silent _thank you, darling _for receiving the most delightful makeshift family she could have asked for in Mr. Holmes' absence. She'd have to remember to phone Mycroft and Anthea to give updates on the children's antics in exchange for news about wedding plans.


End file.
